


Meow

by Blake



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Planet, Interspecies tension, Jim totally wants Spock, M/M, Spock may or may not think Jim's cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim gets turned into a cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



_Spock_ , Jim meows.

It’s his first instinct, and he’s a man who follows his instincts. Scratch that, apparently, he’s a cat who follows his instincts. He wasn’t sure that was the case, at first. Upon waking, he first felt the sensation of being too warm, and the feeling of being incredibly small-- but both these sensations could be explained by the disorientation that always plagued him when he slept in a non-Starfleet Regulation bed. He could chalk it up to the average bed size on Ranza V being bigger than he realized, and to the overbearing hospitality of their host. The Baron must have been as generous with his quilts as he had been with his liquor collection last night.

On second thought, maybe it could all, everything, be chalked up to the generosity with the liquor collection.

All thoughts of last night fled from his mind the instant he tried to roll out of bed. He fell a great distance. He squirmed in the air. He was full of fear. Then he landed on all fours.

That’s when he looks down to sees his four white paws, and meows, _Spock_.

He may be only a cat, but he still has his intellect. He knows, for example, that Spock would not be able to recognize his name in meow form. Furthermore-- and this, here, is the part that really comforts Jim, because it proves he’s still perfectly self-aware-- he knows that Spock is not in this room he slept in. Why would he be? What business would Spock have in any bed Jim was in? Spock could never want from Jim what Jim wants from Spock. Jim tells himself this a few times, licking his paw, and feels increasingly solidified in his identity, even within this strange body. He is the thing that Spock could never love. He is the flawed thing.

He is the greatest, most graceful devil that ever walked on four legs.

Jim jolts, feels his claws digging into flaky red tile. Okay, he thinks. Maybe there is a minuscule piece of cat-consciousness in there.

Vowing to keep a handle on that strange little meowing voice in his head, he struts across the tile floor of the Baron’s guest room. He likes the way his tail feels, swaying in the air. He looks back at it, swishes it back and forth. His butt is cute and white and fluffy-- but not too fluffy. At least he has the decency of being a short-haired cat. He smiles at his tail, or at least he tries to smile, but he’s not sure how it looks on his cat jaws.

Miraculously, the door is ajar and unguarded. Jim slinks through the crack. His paws are silent on the tile floor leading to what he remembers to be Spock’s guest chambers. As he travels, he thinks about how curious it is that his door is unmanned. Who should bother to transform a Starfleet Captain into a cat, and then not keep track of his whereabouts? If the Baron had anything to do with this act of violence, wouldn’t he have made his intentions toward the Federation more clear in the first place? Could the Klingons have been behind this, somehow?

Spock’s door, fortunately, is also unguarded. It is not, however, ajar. Jim makes a running jump for the wooden panel, and kicks with his back legs on impact.

The door does not budge.

That’s why, three minutes later, Jim has scratched inch-deep gauges in the wood under the doorknob. It feels really good. He doesn’t quite remember why he started scratching this corner of the doorframe, but the resistance on his claws feels really, _really_ good, and there’s something incredibly satisfying about watching the furrows in the wood grow deeper and deeper. It makes the base of his tail tingle.

The door moves away from him. Disappointed, Jim sinks his claws deep into the doorframe, which stays pleasantly still as he arches his back into it, getting a lovely, long stretch that makes him smile and see white. “Well, hello, there.”

 _Spock_ , Jim meows. In the same instant he remembers that he came here to find Spock, he remembers that his voice has been replaced by meowing.

For a minute, they regard each other. Spock seems huge. He seems powerful. He looks uncharacteristically uncertain, as though he was sleeping just minutes ago-- or meditating, more likely. Spock is too good for things like sleep. Jim wishes he was strong enough to sleep as little as a Vulcan, but he is just a human. Worse, he is just a cat.

 _He’s going to touch me_ , Jim thinks frantically, as Spock’s hands descend. Jim’s heart speeds dangerously, even though Jim has had this thought a million times. Almost a million times, he was wrong, and Spock wasn’t actually about to touch him. A handful of times, Spock did touch him, and that was it, he just touched him, nothing happened, the Enterprise didn’t explode into fireworks, the galaxy didn’t split in two, and Jim’s heart had to slow, foolish, on its own.

This must be one of that handful of times. Spock wraps his two hands around the entirety of Jim’s ribcage, and lifts him off the ground. “What do you want?” Spock muses, holding Jim in the air before him, face to face.

Jim doesn’t know what to meow.

Only now does he realize that his plan was _Get to Mr. Spock_ , and that _Get to Mr. Spock_ is not a very well thought out plan. Perhaps his cat-consciousness has more of a hold on him than he thought. What can he do, now, held in Spock’s hands like a towel that needs wringing? Now that he has gotten to Mr. Spock, he realizes that his plan needs to be _Get Mr. Spock to recognize me._

It seems an impossible feat. Jim doesn’t normally believe in impossibility, but Spock is the exception to that rule. Jim believes it’s impossible to make Spock want him. It’s impossible to make Spock like him enough that it qualifies as _emotion_ , let alone _love_ him. It’s impossible for Jim to _know_ Spock as thoroughly, deeply, as he wishes to know his friend. And it is impossible for Spock to recognize Jim, in the form of a handsome white cat.

Jim’s sense of gravity is starting to make him squirm. If he could just get his feet on the ground. If he could just--

Oh. No, that’s worse, not better. He’s being moved, brought between Spock’s arm and his side. But Spock’s moving, too, and that’s far too much movement for Jim’s comfort. He’s going to fall. He knows it. If only he had his feet on the ground.

He has to get his feet on the ground. He gets ready to spring free. He digs his claws into Spock’s robes, into the flesh of his torso. But he doesn’t jump. He’s stilled by Spock’s reaction. It’s quite singular. _He doesn’t have one_.

Jim digs his claws in further, tries to make it count. He cranes his neck to smile, pleased with himself, at Spock, who will maybe think he’s cute because he maybe sometimes thinks it’s cute when Jim tries to get a reaction out of him. But Spock isn’t half-smirking the way he does when (Jim’s pretty sure) he thinks Jim is cute. Spock isn’t even grimacing. Curious, and giving up on smiling, Jim drags his front claw down a bit, feels the give of shredding skin.

“Hm,” Spock sighs. It’s not even a grunt. There’s not enough voice in it.

Jim feels confused, because it is not _only_ disappointment that he’s feeling. There’s also that tingle in the base of his tail. How strange.

He forgets to jump out of Spock’s arms, which turns out just fine because Spock sits down on the edge of his bed-- infuriatingly un-mussed, un-slept-in bed, Jim notes-- and places Jim in his lap.

 _Spock_ , Jim meows. With his feet finally safe on the ground, or rather, on Spock’s thighs, which are actually quite hard, almost as hard as the ground, Jim is coherent enough to recall his sense of urgency. _They’ve turned me into a cat. I suspect it’s the Klingons. Though, I just remembered, there was one suspicious fellow I noticed last night. The Baron’s right hand man. The one who bickered with the Baroness all night. Do you think he could be a Klingon in disguise? Spock,_ Jim meows.

“Such a gorgeous animal,” Spock murmurs. _He’s going to touch me_ , Jim thinks, and his heart goes wild again. He’s right. Spock lays a palm on Jim’s skull and strokes, dragging, slowly, all the way down his spine.

Oh. _Ohhhhhhhh. Oh._

That’s nice. That’s definitely nice. Spock pets him again, and Jim can’t resist letting his spine arching into the pressure. But why should he resist?

Oh right. Because he’s Jim Kirk. And this is Spock.

This is so far from professional.

Jim can’t stop purring.

Is it really so bad, really? He’s a cat, for the time being. It’s not as though he’s withholding information from Spock; he tried to communicate. It’s not as though he’s intentionally disguising himself as something Spock wants to touch. It’s not as though he’s noticed how affectionate Spock is with felines, not as though he _intended_ to take advantage of this predilection. And besides, there is nothing inappropriate about this touching. Jim is a cat, and Spock is petting him like most humanoids pet most felines. This isn’t out of the ordinary at all for a housecat-Vulcan interaction.

Or, this _wouldn’t_ be out of the ordinary, if it weren’t for Jim’s consciousness.

And guilt.

But it feels so nice. So, so nice. And Spock starts using his other hand too, scratching Jim’s whiskers, but that’s not quite the right spot, Jim shows him-- there, right at the corner of his chin. Jim’s tail is tingling. This is perfect. He could never move again.

He doesn’t realize that he has been licking anything until Spock’s hand stops scratching his chin. He feels his face still moving, though, and that’s when he notices that his tongue is rhythmically scratching the fleshy juncture of Spock’s index finger and thumb.

 _Oops_ , Jim thinks. But he doesn’t stop. It’s more realistic, that way. If he pretends he’s not conscious of what he’s doing.

Wait, wasn’t the plan to prove to Spock that he _is_ Jim’s consciousness? Jim doesn’t let that question hinder his licking either. Spock’s skin is salty and it drags under Jim’s sandpaper tongue. The skin’s getting green, too, with blood brought to the surface.

Even in his extreme, overpowering comfort, Jim is starting to get uncomfortable. It’s not the touching that’s making him uncomfortable. It’s not the way Spock’s making him feel and it’s _obviously_ not the way he’s making Spock hum contentedly. It’s the guilt.

Still licking, Jim asks himself that most basic of all philosophical questions: was the cat-consciousness he claimed merely a mask for the more disturbing drives of his Jim-consciousness? When he woke up a cat, did he have, clear, in his mind, the knowledge that Spock is partial to cats? Did he bury that factoid under excuses, such as _He’s the most likely to recognize me_ and _It’s my responsibility to find my First Officer before anyone else_? And worse, when he started licking Spock’s fingers, did he do it with the knowledge that Spock is a Vulcan, and that Vulcans have uniquely sensitive hands? Did he blind himself behind a mask of animal instinct, in order not to face his own despicable desperation?

Are all cats this self-loathing? Jim wonders this, trying out the boundaries of his cat-brain, trying to sense what parts of it are strictly his.

“Yes, you’re a beautiful one, aren’t you?”

Spock’s talking to him again. Jim feels like a god as he arches his back into Spock’s hand again. He stops licking and butts his face into Spock’s palm. Spock takes the hint and holds his face, rubbing lightly behind his left ear. That feels so good, Jim’s toes are curling. This means that his claws are extending, and they’re extending into the top of Spock’s thigh. Jim can hear Spock suck in a breath and hold it. He recognizes that as pain. But Jim pretends total innocence. He didn’t mean to do that. Really.

He tries on his _Aren’t I cute?_ smile, since it doesn’t seem to translate to his cat face, anyways. He’s out of danger.

“Mr. Spock, the Captain’s gone!”

Spock hisses as Jim’s claws dig in deeper, in surprise. _Wait, that’s my line_ , Jim thinks briefly, but he’s too confused by now to analyze cat behavior. Besides, Chekov is at Spock’s door, calling attention to the fact that something’s awry. Worse, Spock has stopped petting him.

In fact, Spock isn’t moving. There’s a long, still pause before he answers Chekov. “Ensign, report to Mr. Scott, and inform him to notify Starfleet of this occurrence. I will begin investigations presently into the disappearance of the Captain.”

The second the Ensign has disappeared into the hallway, Jim can feel poking at the edge of his consciousness.

 _Uh-oh_ , he meows. Spock must have sketched a line to connect the dots as soon as he heard his Captain was missing. Clearly, he intends to test out that line by examining the consciousness of the strange cat who showed up at his door this morning.

Spock is damned intuitive.

If Jim flatters himself, he can believe that Spock is damned intuitive _when it comes to Jim Kirk_. And he does flatter himself, in this moment. He’s a cat, after all.

He’s the most horrid creature ever to exist. When Spock finds out it’s him, he will hate Jim for all eternity. Even Jim hates Jim for all eternity. He’s a cat, after all.

Even though Spock will surely hate him, Jim looks at Spock and doesn’t move away when a hand descends on his head. This time, Spock won’t be petting him. Jim is preparing himself for a Vulcan mind meld.

He swallows. One last time, he tries his _Aren’t I cute?_ grin. _I am a cat. A cat. A cat_ , he thinks, because maybe if he seems lost in felinity, Spock will think Jim’s consciousness has had no power over the actions of the last twenty minutes.

 _Jim_ , Spock thinks, in Jim’s mind.

 _Spock_ , Jim meows.

 

“Of all the felines in the universe, he just had to turn me into an Earth housecat.”

Jim is in his chair on the bridge, finally in his rightful body and rightful place. He misses Mr. Spock’s lap, slightly. He looks over at him, to see if the topic is piquing his interest at all.

“Why not a Risan tiger, vocal cords included?” Jim continues. “Or one of those Spican felines, with the thirty-six dialects? What do you think, Bones: would my _mind_ have been any less... transformed, if I had been changed into an animal with the capability to talk?”

Since he has just addressed Dr. McCoy, it would be appropriate to turn and face him. Jim does so, even though Spock’s shoulders are still frustratingly un-tensed, where he’s hovering over his science station.

McCoy is looking proud as a peacock as he explains his take on the situation. “Well, no, Jim, I don’t think that’s necessarily the case. If, as you say, you weren’t able to use your mind to control your _actions_ , then I don’t see how you would have been able to control your language, even if you’d had any. If you were wagging the tail of a housecat, you’d just have been wagging the tongue of some Risan tiger, Jim. Seems like you were stuck in the backseat, so to speak, no matter what kind of cat was driving.”

“Well, that’s... comforting to know, Bones. Oddly enough, I wouldn’t have wanted to find out that all my frustration... could have been avoided.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far, Jim!” Bones’s loyalty is in his voice, and it makes Jim feel slightly guilty for exaggerating his trapped-in-a-cat’s-body story. But Jim had a choice between lying to the entire crew or revealing to Spock that he had, in part, been the one licking Spock’s fingers. The choice was obvious. The crew has a nice story to tuck away, and Bones has something to be morally outraged about: “You might say that the whole damned _ordeal_ could have been avoided, if that witch hadn’t gotten jealous and magicked you into a damned cat!”

“To be fair,” Jim says, though he’s less interested in fairness and more interested in prolonging this conversation until Mr. Spock looks over in his direction, “That witch did have the courtesy to turn me back. I think he was satisfied once he got the Baron’s attention. That’s all most spurned lovers are after, wouldn’t you say?”

Bones replies, “All I’d say is that the Baroness is lucky he got put away. I think she was bound to get turned into a toad pretty soon, if you hadn’t snagged his attention first.”

“...By, snagging the Baron’s attention, of course,” Jim says through a chuckle.

“Now, I think that’s an exaggeration. The man was delusional; I honestly don’t think the Baron was flirting with you all _that_ much.”

Jim opens his mouth, intending to welcome the knocking down of his ego, but he is interrupted.

“He was flirting.”

Jim looks over to Mr. Spock. He assumes Bones is staring, too, because no one is talking. No one talks for so long that Spock recognizes the silence as awkward, and turns to meet Jim’s gaze.

“Is that so, Mr. Spock?” are the words Jim finally finds under his dry tongue.

Spock refuses to falter, or else is incapable of faltering. “His movements and tone at the dinner table were notably different toward you than toward the other guests. In my objective understanding of the matter, this suggests his emotions toward you were uniquely heightened.”

Jim rubs his hands against the arms of his chair, searching for a reply. “Mr. Spock, you have an impressive ability to make _flirting_ sound like an excruciating medical procedure.”

“Thank you.”

He’s breathless as he continues, because he’s not sure he truly wants to say this: “Though I have to point out, I’ve noticed your movements and tone toward me-- in feline form, that is-- were notably different from how you interact with other people. Perhaps this is a sign of-- uniquely heightened, emotions, was it?”

Jim can hear Bones chuckling behind him, but his own breath is bated as he watches Spock react-- as he watches those shoulders, finally tensing. That’s it, that’s what Jim needed. He smiles hugely, pleased with himself, hoping Spock thinks he looks as cute as a cat.

But he should have known. He doesn’t have Spock speechless. He has yet to have that huge an effect on him. Not speechless, Spock explains, “There is something _pure_ about the existence of an animal. An animal’s emotions are so undeniable and complete, that its system of emotions resembles, in fact, _logic_. I find something-- admirable in the single-mindedness of an animal. Humans, however--”

“Are the plague of the universe,” Bones cuts in. “We know, Spock.”

Jim smiles, to himself; Spock’s eyes are on the viewscreen, scanning the scores of star systems they’re passing by. All this time, Jim has been despairing of never being able to win Spock’s affection, on account of being utterly incapable of pure logic. But pure emotion? Pure, animal emotion, unadulterated by thought? The idea has never occurred to him that Spock likes his logic all-or-nothing. Suddenly, Jim wishes he could burst out with pride, _That cat you so admired, Spock? The one who calmed you and made you hiss and licked your hand out of pure want? That was ME. I can be more single-minded about pleasing you than any animal you’ve ever met!_

The idea of telling these things to Spock is enticing. But words come from thoughts. Thoughts are not animal. If he were actually to convince Spock, he would have to do it with actions, driven by pure emotions.

And that’s not really something he’s comfortable with doing on the bridge of his ship. Maybe later, someday soon, when he can get a moment alone with Spock, he’ll pounce.


End file.
